


two months, too long

by haleofStilesheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Hurt, Getting Together, Hurt Castiel, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Dean, Pining Castiel, Post-Season/Series 11, Rating May Change, Sam Ships It, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 03:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12290412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleofStilesheart/pseuds/haleofStilesheart
Summary: It's been two months. Two months since the Darkness was defeated, since the world had almost ended (again).Since Dean had kissed Cas in the Impala before going off to face the Darkness. Two months since Cas had been given hope that what he's wanted for years might be his.Two months since that hope had been stolen away from him.





	two months, too long

**Author's Note:**

> The whole time I was watching Alpha and Omega, all I could think about was Dean kissing Cas in the Impala. So, I came up with this!  
> I have more planned I just have a lot of other prompts and responsibilities to deal with first but I figured, hey, why not post the first part?

It had been two months.

Two months since the Darkness had been defeated. Two months since God had disappeared along with it. Two months since Dean had been sent on a suicide mission to save everything in existence.

Two months since they had said their teary-eyed goodbyes in the cemetery in Lawrence, cherry blossom petals cascading down as though the trees themselves were mourning Dean's sacrifice. Two months since the sun had hung ominously in the sky with a sickly glow, slowly dying light years away.

Two months since Dean had kissed Castiel in the front seat of the Impala. Two months since Dean had pressed their lips together in a deep kiss while he cupped Cas' face in his hands like he was the most important thing in the entire dying universe.

Two months since Dean had unexpectedly survived his suicide mission, miraculously spared a martyr's death and returned in one piece to the Bunker. Two months since they had once again avoided yet another apocalypse.

Two months since Dean had touched Cas in any way whatsoever that was anything more than strictly platonic. Two months since they had fallen back into their usual routine of sharing only longing glances and unresolved tension.

It had been two months. And Cas beginning to lose his patience.

Two months earlier, he had experienced the most bittersweet moment of his entire life when Dean had suddenly pulled over to the side of the road and put the Impala in park while they were on their way to the liquor store. Dean had just finished apologizing for sometimes forgetting about everything else outside of Sam and himself, apologizing for the times he had selfishly neglected Cas and his own issues.

Dean had scoffed and laughed under his breath, low and warm, when Cas had made a comment about Dean and his brother living exciting lives, having already forgiven Dean for any trespasses, either real or imagined. Sobering, Dean had sincerely informed Cas that he was the best friend that both he and Sam had ever had, just before abruptly pulling over to the side of the road, putting his baby in park.

Cas had been thoroughly confused, opening his mouth to ask if Dean was alright, noting the pinched, conflicted expression on Dean's face as he gripped the steering wheel tight enough that his knuckles went bone white. Cas knew it wasn't the best question to ask given the circumstances but he was worried by the sudden tension in Dean's body.

Regardless, the angel never got to utter more than one syllable. Dean had effectively cut him off by sliding closer on the bench seat and pulling Cas into a kiss.

There had been no preamble. He hadn't said a word, not one. He had just cupped Cas' face in his warm, callused hands and brought their lips together in a surprisingly chaste kiss.

Not knowing what else to do, his previous history of kisses consisting only of a now-deceased demon and an equally deceased reaper, Cas had clutched at the front of Dean's shirt, fisted his hand in Dean's jacket. He was desperate and confused and elated, following his instincts and Dean's lead.

Dean must have taken it as a sign of approval, of assent, of encouragement as he tilted his head to the side to deepen the kiss. He used his hands on Cas' jaw to tilt his head up, guiding him into the kiss as he licked into the angel's mouth.

Cas had let out a breathy little moan, unable to properly articulate the whirlwind of emotion twisting around inside of him any other way, as he parted his lips. Dean had smiled against his lips at the sound, shifting even closer as he continued kissing Cas as though his life depended on it.

Cas had returned the kiss to the best of his ability, tentatively moving his lips in response to the movement of Dean's, very timidly touching the tip of his tongue to Dean's. It was wet and hot and uncoordinated, Cas clumsy and woefully inexperienced where Dean was more confident and skilled.

It had been like a dream come true for Cas, a culmination of all his years of desperate longing and love that he had been sure would always be unrequited. Dean's lips on his was the greatest salvation he had ever experienced, far beyond the glory of Heaven or the humbling honor of being in the very presence of God. He had never wanted it to end.

It had ended though. Only a few seconds later, Dean removing one hand from Cas' jaw to curl an arm around his waist, tugging him closer, Dean's cell phone rang. Its shrill cry startled them both into breaking apart, the sound damn near deafening in the peaceful, intimate silence of the car.

Dean had taken a moment to compose himself and catch his breath, panting heavily when he reluctantly broke the kiss. Scooting back a couple inches, he ran a hand through his hair before answering the phone with a gruff, "Yo."

Dean and Sam had only spoken for a few minutes, afterwards, Dean hung up and succinctly informed Cas that Sam might have something pertaining to their current crisis. Disappointment had settled in Cas' gut, heavy and leaden like a stone, sure that the sweet paradise they had stumbled on would be lost once they returned to the Bunker.

To his surprise, Dean had leaned in close to peck Cas on the lips. It was a barely there brush of their lips, feather light and downright heavenly, setting off a flood of hope within him.

After Dean had cleared his throat and moved back over to the other side of the bench seat, they had raced back to the Bunker. Back to the ragtag assemblage of the universe's last hope, debating solutions for defeating the impending Darkness once and for all.

When Cas had suggested the use of souls, he had almost immediately regretted it. He had meant to help, not have Dean be used as a glorified sacrifice.

Later, at the cemetery in Lawrence with the weeping cherry blossoms, where Dean said his final goodbyes, Cas had practically begged to go with Dean to face the Darkness. He had to atone for the death sentence he had inadvertently given Dean, even if it meant his death.

In true Dean fashion, self-sacrificing and so painfully brave, he had gently rejected Cas' offer, claiming it was something he had to do on his own. However, also in true Dean fashion, he had gratefully accepted the angel's hug afterwards, when all Cas wanted to do was pull Dean into another long, lingering kiss and somehow spare him from his inevitable death.

But like so many other things that Cas had wanted in his long lifetime, he couldn't have it. So instead he contented himself with holding Dean in his arms while fighting back tears as they silently said goodbye.

When Dean had laid his hand on Cas' shoulder and thanked him, for everything, Cas had been filled with hope for another kiss, watching as Dean's gaze strayed to his lips. But nothing had happened. Dean had only squeezed Cas' shoulder then shifted his attention to his brother.

Cas had spent the rest of the day in an otherwise abandoned bar with people he loved and people he had long considered enemies. He had occupied himself with burying his face in his hands, desperately hoping that no tears would fall from his eyes and hopelessly praying that Dean would somehow survive. Because what was the use in saving the universe if Dean would not be in it?

If he had been given a billion years to describe the utter, overwhelming joy and relief that he had felt when they discovered that Dean was still alive, that God had vetoed their original plan and absconded with the Darkness, he would fail miserably. No words had ever existed nor would ever exist, in any language known to man, angels, or demons, that could adequately describe how Cas had felt.

Likewise, there were no words to describe how he felt two months later. There were a few that were somewhat close — dejected, disappointed, hurt, heartbroken. But they just weren't enough.

Because in the two months following the defeat of the Darkness, Dean had not kissed him again. Had not taken Cas in his arms. Had not even breathed a word about what had transpired between them in the Impala.

It seemed as though in only two short months, Dean had forgotten all about the kiss that had given Cas more hope than he had ever possessed before. It was a horrible notion that inspired even more horrible feelings that Cas did not even know the names for.

After God and the Darkness had left Earth, disappearing to somewhere no one could find them, their lives had fallen into a regular routine. Well, as regular a routine as one belonging to two hunters and a partially fallen angel could possibly be.

Cas had officially moved into the Bunker, much to the delight of Sam and Dean, unwilling to be away from the man he loved with every fiber of his being and the man who had become more of a brother to him than any angel. Besides, it wasn't as though he could return to Heaven even after God had unsealed its gates, instead he focused on living as a hunter.

They worked whatever case came their way, ranging from nests of vampires to packs of skinwalkers, even a coven of witches that had been causing mischief in a town in Nevada. The biggest case they had worked involved a few rogue crossroads demons collecting souls prematurely and it hadn't been all that strenuous, Crowley all too happen to gank the bastards himself.

Aside from hunting, they had actually settled into a semblance of domestic routine as well.

Sam woke up early every morning to go on a run around the rural roads of Lebanon or whatever little podunk town they found themselves in, ignoring Dean's eye rolls. On occasion, Cas would tag along with him despite his newfound proclivity for sleeping in well past sunrise.

He didn't truly require rest, or food, for that matter, but he had grown fond of it nonetheless, of dreaming and lingering in warm sheets for hours on end. Food wasn't all that bad either when he selectively suppressed his grace enough to allow him to taste more than just molecules.

In the afternoons, Sam did yoga in the gym, playing soft instrumental songs as he practiced various different poses, again ignoring it whenever Dean rolled his eyes. Once or twice, he had mentioned dabbling with tai chi which had garnered an exaggerated sigh from Dean.

Speaking of Dean, he cooked breakfast most mornings and dinner every night that they were in the Bunker, usually humming under his breath and bobbing his head as he fried eggs or flipped burgers. He had even looked into how to make his own homemade pies, something he talked about with such passion it was almost hypnotic.

He had devoted himself to fixing up and cleaning all of the vehicles in the carport, a daunting task that he looked forward to with relish. It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes whenever Dean brought out the shorts he only wore when working on the Impala and now the other cars.

Occasionally, when they didn't have any cases or other plans, he would drive them over to the Lovewell Reservoir in Jewell County to go fishing, catching bass and walleye, sometimes even catfish. Cas greatly enjoyed those days, especially when Dean stood directly behind him, their bodies pressed together, and showed him how to cast his reel.

Cas stayed to himself for the most part in the Bunker, not wanting to intrude on the lives Sam and Dean had made for themselves. There were times when he wondered whether or not he truly belonged there, if he had simply been invited to stay as a courtesy, if he had overstayed his welcome.

Pushing those thoughts aside, he spent most of his time watching whatever piqued his interest on Netflix or reading the books Sam recommended him. The genres, for both television and literature, encompassed everything from nonfiction documentaries and biographies to epic fantasies, enthralling him no matter what the subject matter.

He occupied some of the remainder of his time that wasn't spent with Sam and Dean, voluntarily performing banal household chores like washing the laundry and cleaning the bathroom. When Dean had questioned him about his eagerness to engage in manual labor, ensuring Cas that he definitely wasn't complaining about them splitting up the workload, Cas had simply explained that he enjoyed being useful.

The rest of the time, he waited for Dean to kiss him again.

But it never happened.

Dean had reverted to his usual somewhat taciturn, extraordinary emotionally reserved self, simply continuing his life as though nothing had ever happened; saving people, hunting things, and leaving Cas to wonder what exactly he had done wrong.

Had he been too enthusiastic when he returned Dean's kiss, needy in the way he often heard men complain about? Had he not been enthusiastic enough, too timid with his affections? Or had his inexperience had put Dean off, the way he had fumbled and flailed like an untried virgin?

Then again, it could have been something else. Yes, it must have been something else. Dean wouldn't have kissed him a second time if he had done something wrong the first time, right?

Yes, of course. He would just have to find out what that other something was. He could wait, no matter how frustrating it was.

It had been difficult at first. Cas had wanted nothing more than to plant a firm, enraptured, deliriously happy kiss on Dean's lips when he was returned to the Bunker after the Darkness had been dealt with. He hadn't of course, mostly because Dean had made a beeline to Sam, hugging his brother tightly before giving Cas a hug of his own, no romantic intent in the gesture.

Cas had understood. Dean had just come perilously close to dying, permanently this time. And he had just freed himself from the disturbing connection he had been forced to share with the Darkness.

Reasonably, he had known that Dean had needed some time to recover from the harrowing ordeal he had been through. He needed time to relax and unwind in the comfort and safety of the Bunker without the proverbial weight of the world on his shoulders.

Cas knew that he just had to be patient. After years of pining and eons of life, he was nothing if not patient. It was a virtue, after all.

He had been certain that once Dean was feeling better, was back to his old self so to speak, he would initiate something else, would at the very least tell Cas what those first kisses had meant. All Cas'd had to do was wait. He had known that he could do that.

When Dean had happily announced that he was feeling as good as new one morning, over breakfast that consisted of waffles and sausage, Cas had waited with bated breath for...for... Well, he hadn't exactly known what for — a kiss? A spontaneous confession of love? An explanation of why their kisses had meant nothing? — but he had waited nonetheless.

Nothing had happened. They had simply finished their breakfast and checked online for any hints of a potential case. There had been no kisses, no declarations of love, no awkward conversations about regretting that moment in the Impala.

Cas had tried to reassure himself, tried to convince himself that Dean just needed more time. It felt an awful lot like he was lying to himself.

Two months had passed and as recovered as Dean was, as himself as Dean was, he had still been distant. Even when he and Cas were in the same room. And it hurt.

It hurt every time he had sat beside Dean while they ate whatever Dean had made for dinner, joking and laughing and regaling each other with various stories from their pasts. Every time they had been squished together on the couch for a Star Wars marathon, Cas constantly wishing that he could curl his arm around Dean's shoulders or his waist and squeeze even closer.

It hurt every time he had been allowed to ride shotgun, either because he had done particularly good on a hunt or Sam wanted to take a nap in the backseat. It had constantly reminded him of the feel of Dean's lips against his own, the taste of his breath, the warmth of his rough hands.

It hurt every time they stayed overnight in cheap, seedy motels where Cas would remain wide awake all night on lumpy pull out couches, gazing across the room to where Dean sleep. Every time he had wanted nothing more than to climb into bed beside him, if only to be closer to him for a few fleeting moments.

It hurt every time that Dean had flirted with others in front of him, when he winked and beamed at busty bartenders and curvy waitresses with bottle blonde curls and dark eyes. Every time Dean exiled him and Sam from their motel room as he had one night stands with people whose names he would not remember in the morning, Sam rolling his eyes and sleeping in the Impala while Cas sat on the hood and tried to ignore the empty pit inside of him, tried to make excuses for Dean.

He could never come up with very good ones.

Everything seemed to hurt. Every friendly smile Dean sent him after making an especially scathing sarcastic comment or a joke at Sam's expense. Every lingering pat on the back after a successful hunt before they retreated back to their motel room.

Every accidental brush of their hands in the hallway or the kitchen. Every time their eyes would just so happen to meet from across the room. Every time Dean so much as said Cas' name.

It  _ hurt. _ And Cas didn't know what to do about it.

He was more accustomed to physical ailments and injuries. Battle scars and bullet wounds. Injuries he could heal with the touch of his hand.

But this was different. This was so much worse.

It was like a palpable ache in his chest, in his very grace, throbbing painfully like a lovesick heartbeat. As visceral as it often felt, leaving him suffering from bouts of physical illness, he knew that it was about as physically tangible as a prayer. And he didn't know how to fix it.

So there he was at five a.m. on a Saturday morning, sitting at the kitchen table in the Bunker, shoving chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream into his mouth with a serving spoon. Along with his ice cream, he had a glass of whiskey off to his right, the half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's honey whiskey sitting beside it.

He had no idea what he should do.

Waiting clearly had not worked and he highly doubted that waiting even longer would produce a different result. And he had a feeling that outright confronting Dean about that day, about the kisses they had shared, would not end very well.

Earlier that morning, around two a.m. he would guess, Cas had begun toying with another option, a conclusion he did not particularly care for. His grand conclusion? The best course of action would be no action whatsoever.

He could put aside his selfish love and resolve to move forward as Dean's friend. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He knew that it wouldn't be very easy, quite the opposite in fact, but over time he had become rather adept at concealing his romantic feelings for Dean. He'd had nearly a decade to perfect his ruse of pretending that the only thing he felt towards Dean was platonic, almost familial, loyalty and friendship.

It wasn't the most ideal solution but at that point, it seemed as though it was the only viable one. And at the expense of his own happiness, he was willing to do nearly anything to salvage the relationship between him and Dean. Even if it meant condemning himself to a life of pining, unrequitedly, for the man that he loved.

Sighing in resignation, he shoved another comically huge spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, the taste of vanilla bland on his tongue as he chewed on a ball of raw cookie dough. The ice cream was a little freezer burnt, not that it mattered.

He wasn't eating to enjoy it. He was just eating for the sake of eating. It was a habit he had learned from watching TV.

If he was willing to be more honest with himself, he would have admitted that he was eating in a futile attempt to fill the void inside of him, with ice cream rather than the love of the man he had saved from Hell. But he had become rather fluent in denial over the past few years and that confession would never see the light of day.

He figured he still had a couple more hours before either Sam or Dean woke up. Sam usually woke up sound six thirty for his morning runs while Dean typically woke up later between seven and seven thirty to start on breakfast so it would be ready when Sam returned to the Bunker.

He considered going out for a quick walk once he finished his early breakfast of ice cream and whiskey. He figured the crisp morning air and the sound of songbirds serenading the Kansas dawn might help clear his head, might help him see some sort of silver lining so to speak. Maybe he would see some bees. He'd like that.

He was raising another spoonful of ice cream to his lips when he heard it, the telltale pad of bare feet on the polished concrete floor of the Bunker. He froze, drops of melting ice cream falling into the kitchen table.

Judging by the weight behind the footsteps and the pattern of the accompanying heartbeat, Cas knew that it was Sam, letting out a small sigh of relief. Better Sam than Dean.

He didn't know how he would react if Dean was the one who found him like, drowning his sorrows in ice cream of all things. He had a feeling that Dean would have some choice words about chick flicks, perhaps a few vaguely misogynistic comments about Cas suffering from pre-menstrual syndrome.

At least with Sam, Cas knew that at the very most he would receive a few questions, maybe a bit of teasing. It definitely wouldn't be the same mostly lighthearted judgment that always cut like a knife when it came from Dean.

Cas sighed again, mentally kicking himself for being so deplorably pathetic. He had defied Heaven a thousand times over, never caring for the censure of his brethren yet he feared Dean judging him over something as trite as his choices in breakfast.

"Cas?" Sam's voice called softly as he appeared in the kitchen doorway, sounding groggy and confused. He was still in his pajamas, a baggy t-shirt and a pair of threadbare sweatpants with a hole in the left knee, his long hair disheveled, a few messy locks covering his right eye.

Sam took a few tentative steps into the kitchen, heading towards the refrigerator across the room. Raising a curious brow as he passed the kitchen table, he asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm... Oh, what's the phrase...?" Cas trailed off in deep thought, glaring down at his spoon and furrowing his brow in concentration as he ran through his mental catalogue of human euphemisms and metaphors. There was a ridiculous amount, filling up his head with odd terms and idioms that barely made any sense to him.

Finally, he raised his spoon in triumph, claiming, "Oh, yes. I'm eating my feelings."

"Oh," Sam said plainly, his eyebrows shooting up until they nearly disappeared in his hairline. Brows still raised, he reached into the fridge for the carton of orange juice before crossing the room to grab a glass.

He carried both over to the table where he took a seat directly across from Cas. His tone was friendly and supportive as he inquired, "And, uh, what do they taste like?"

"Molecules," Cas answered around a mouthful of ice cream, already scooping up some more with his oversized spoon. He washed it down with a long sip of whiskey that was similarly tasteless, though it still burned a bit going down.

"Molecules?" Sam repeated, a crease between his brows as he poured himself a glass of orange juice. Recapping the carton, he wrinkled his nose and comments, "I thought you could taste stuff now."

"If I so choose," Cas confirms with a nod after another long slug of his drink. Setting his glass down, he elaborated, "But at the moment I'm already feeling so many—" he waved his hand around aimlessly  _ "—feelings _ that I'd rather not throw all sorts of physical sensations into the mix."

"And, uh... What would those  _ feelings  _ be, exactly?" Sam wonders aloud after taking a drink of his orange juice. He set his elbow on the table, propping his chin up in his palm. He has plenty of suspicions, he just needs Cas to confirm them.

Cas lifted his nearly empty glass, draining it before pouring himself some more whiskey with one hand while he stirred half melted ice cream around with his spoon in the other. Frowning down at the little islands of cookie dough in the ocean of vanilla, he grumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Sam to hear, "Disappointment. Envy. Greed. Wounded pride. Sadness. Even—" he lowered his voice to a mere whisper "—heartache."

Sam winced in sympathy. For weeks now he had suspected that something had changed in Cas and Dean's relationship, that something had happened between them.

He saw it in the hopeful way Cas kept looking at Dean. The angel had always looked at Dean that way, intrigued and captivated as though awed by every little thing about him, but now it was different.

It was more expectant, like Cas was constantly waiting for Dean do something. Even the longing in his gaze had changed. Now, it was the kind of longing of someone who had lost something, not the kind of someone who had never had it to begin with.

He saw it in the way Dean had resolutely been avoiding meeting Cas' eyes, as though looking at him straight on would be the worst form of torture he had ever experienced. Like looking into his eyes would goad him into doing something.

He saw it in the way Dean still stared at Cas whenever he wasn't looking, over shoulder or out of the corner of his or in the rearview mirror. And every time, there was a similar longing etched into his features like a permanent fixture, physical proof of his pining.

He wasn't stupid. He knew that something had happened before the death of all things in existence had been averted.

He just didn't know what. But he definitely wanted to.

Rather than asking Cas point blank, or god forbid, Dean, who would throw a fit if Sam even implied that something happened, he just waited for Cas to share any and all details himself. He can be patient, a lifetime of dealing with an emotionally constipated older brother had made sure of that.

"Speaking of which," Cas ventured warily, poking at a lump of cookie dough with the tip of his spoon. "Could I perhaps get your advice?"

He debated whether or not he should continue eating. Ultimately, he decided that he definitely should, needing something to settle the roiling pit of anxiety that was his stomach.

Stuffing his mouth with more melting ice cream, he chewed globs of cookie dough as he tried to figure out how to phrase his next question. Should Sam agree to offer his advice, that is.

"Of course, Cas," Sam answered, nodding with a wide smile. His hair bobbed as he nodded. He tucked a few stray strands behind his ear and made a rolling gesture with his other hand that Cas took as a cue to continue.

Cas opened his mouth, then closed it. He tried again, closing his mouth before any words came out.

He frowned down at the nearly empty carton of ice. He swallowed and licked his lips, letting out a shaky sigh, still grappling with his choice of words.

"Hypothetically," Cas began, picking at his cuticles. "If someone very close to you, a friend perhaps,  _ kissed  _ you before doing something very dangerous and life-threatening yet survived but did not kiss you again... What would you do...? Hypothetically, of course."

He chewed the inside of his lip as he waited for Sam's reply, giving him time to process his words. Cas may have blurted out his question rather inelegantly, barely pausing to breathe since it was essentially unnecessary for him, and he was well aware that human minds processed things slower than angel's minds.

He kept his eyes down as he fiddled with his fingernails, waiting patiently for Sam to offer some sort of advice, some kind of wisdom. He wasn't too proud to admit that he was desperate for a solution that did not involve him continuing to simply ignore his feelings for Dean.

He hoped that his question did not make it too obvious who exactly he was talking about. Though, not for his own sake.

Personally, Cas did not care if Sam knew the full, unadulterated truth. The discretion was purely for Dean's benefit. If he had reservations about kissing Cas again, it wasn't much of a stretch to believe that he wouldn't want his brother knowing there had been any kisses whatsoever.

Humans were very strange about things like that. Cas would never understand it.

On the other side of the table, Sam just hummed to himself, nodding slowly.

_ So that's what happened,  _ he mused with a slight grimace, his nod morphing into a disapproving shake of his head. God, he knew his brother could be an idiot sometimes but this really took the cake.

Dean kissing Cas both was and wasn't surprising. It was long overdue but the fact that Dean had finally shed some of his insecurities and internalized homophobia for long enough to kiss Cas was astonishing. Sam couldn't help but be extremely proud of his brother.

But the aftermath? The months following the hypothetical kiss? Not so awe-inspiring.

Sam immediately thought about all of the times he had seen Cas linger around Dean with that hopeful look in his eyes, realizing that he had been hoping for another kiss. Of all the times he had caught Cas watching over Dean while he slept, looking beyond exhausted.

And, oh god, all the flirting with waitresses and witnesses, all the winking and double entendres right in front of Cas. All the one night stands that he kicked them out of their motel rooms for, all the nights that Cas had sat outside the car like some sort of angelic hood ornament, waiting for Dean's return.

Sam barely resisted the urge to groan and bury his face in his hands, instead looking steadily at Cas who was staring down at his ice cream. His chest constricted at the forlorn expression on Cas' face, the angel drowning in the dark gray of his borrowed t-shirt, one of Sam's that he hadn't minded giving up, as he continued stuffing his face with ice cream.

Sam hated seeing Cas like that, so much so that he would have to remind himself to kick Dean's ass at some point. Hopefully in the near future. Maybe he could fit it in after his yoga session that afternoon.

But at the moment, he just smiled at Cas, trying to formulate some decent advice based on what he knew about both the situation and his brother. With a grin, he began, "Hypothetically, I'd probably make a move of my own."

Cas finally looked back up at Sam, tilting his head to the side and squinting in confusion. Seeing that Cas needed some more clarification, Sam hurried to go on, "Any move really, y'know? Even if it's just sitting down with D— whoever hypothetically kissed me and talking about it."

Cas nodded thoughtfully. He squinted down at the kitchen table, his mouth tightening as he carefully mulled over Sam's words.

The solution he had provided seemed viable. Especially considering the fact that Dean usually reacted better to actions than words.

Yes, it was very good. Much better than his initial plan of trying to forget the fact that Dean had ever kissed him.

"Thank you, Sam," he said brightly, a wide smile curling his lips. He grabbed his glass of whiskey and finished it off in one gratifyingly flavorful gulp, the hint of honey settling pleasantly on his tongue.

The alcohol seemed to bolster him. Liquid courage, he believed Dean called it.

Standing, he busied himself with throwing out the empty carton of ice cream and rinsing his spoon and whiskey glass. Very carefully, he returned his bottle of whiskey to the liquor cabinet, right beside the bottle of original Jack Daniel's and the bottle of white wine that Dean refused to admit was his.

He sent Sam another grateful smile before disappearing into the hallway, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the Bunker as he left Sam alone in the kitchen. Sam took another sip of his orange juice, shaking his head as he desperately hoped that for once his older brother would pull his head out of his ass and stop denying himself, and Cas, the happiness they both deserved.

Sam was still going to kick his ass, though.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr [here](hale-of-stiles-heart.tumblr.com)


End file.
